


Dangerous

by storylinecontinuum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, historical setting, post war of 1812
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storylinecontinuum/pseuds/storylinecontinuum
Summary: Captain Arthur Kirkland of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy was not having a good day.It was just his luck that Mobile Bay should be beset with bad weather when he had business there. Business that could have been concluded weeks ago if it weren’t for that same infernal luck and the Americans’ glaring incompetence. But of course, when it came to blaming providence or blaming the Americans, Arthur would always choose the latter.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> I recently rewatched Hornblower and this idea just wouldn’t leave me alone. Huge thanks to elfpen for beta reading this chapter!

Captain Arthur Kirkland of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy was not having a good day.

The boat under him made leap after leap over the waves as the wind sent clouds of spray into his eyes and flung the collar of his boat cloak into his face – a discomfort compounded by the lukewarm rain that pelted his hat and slid down his neck.

It was just his luck that Mobile Bay should be beset with bad weather when he had business there. Business that could have been concluded weeks ago if it weren’t for that same infernal luck and the Americans’ glaring incompetence. But of course, when it came to blaming providence or blaming the Americans, Arthur would always choose the latter and it was in a dour silence that he let himself be rowed away from the harbor and toward the ship waiting out in the bay.

He had arrived in that same bay at the beginning of the month under orders to pick up the last of the British prisoners from America, stranded there after the war, and he’d been doing an expeditious job of it until that sorry excuse for a pilot had caused their ship to run aground. Arthur grit his teeth at the memory. The impact had been so rough that it had caused their mizzen mast to snap clean in half and he had been just a few feet away from being buried under the wreckage. It would have made for a most lucrative headline back home.

The ship itself had sustained such thorough damage that it would take weeks to tow and refit her. Thankfully the yanks’ government had been apologetic enough to arrange for another cartel ship and an additional man-of-war to ferry them back home, although the solution had hardly quelled Arthur’s indignation.

Hence his current mood.

“I know women who can row faster than this,” he muttered under his breath and the nearest oarsman shot him a dirty look. Arthur glared back with all his might.

Before long, they were in the ship’s lee and Arthur drew up his eyes to follow the lines of her enormous masts. She was a fine frigate, he had to admit, and she looked like she could outrun most any ship at sea. Arthur scowled and pressed his lips together as the boat was hailed and an officer aboard the ship was informed of his arrival.

Then came the laborious task of climbing her side. Arthur leapt up the footholds impatiently, heedless of the violent motions of the ship, and emerged on her deck under the sound of the bosun’s pipes. The moment both his legs touched the planks, he swept the ship with a scrutinizing gaze, taking note of the state of her men, equipment and overall appearance. She seemed… well maintained enough. Though that didn’t stop him from spotting a few things he would have done better.

“Captain Kirkland!” he heard someone call and snapped his eyes back to the gaggle of officers he’d skimmed over almost as an afterthought. A tall fellow separated from the group and made his way over to him in two impossibly large strides.

“Welcome aboard the _Fair American_ ,” the man said and Arthur caught a glimpse of blue eyes between the other’s hat and the top of his cloak. As if sensing his attempt to get a good look, the man hurried to take off his hat before extending an arm toward him.

“Captain Alfred Jones at your service. I trust you’re eager to get back home?” Jones smiled, giving Arthur an eyeful of straight white teeth. He was as tall as he’d seemed from afar and though he’d stopped a reasonable distance away, Arthur could almost feel the enormous space his presence took up on deck.

What little Arthur could see despite the cloak suggested a broad yet youthfully slim frame and at the same time Arthur caught the faint trace of crow’s feet that had made their way along the top of the other’s cheeks, swathing his age in mystery. The wind was making a mess of his dark blond hair but Arthur didn’t need better weather to recognize the handsome quality of the features he was looking at.

He raised a brow at the American.

“It’s _Lord_ Kirkland,” he corrected, catching Jones’ rain soaked hand with the tips of his fingers. “Do I have to worry about this one running aground as well?” he added, ignoring Jones’ earlier question and swiping his eyes over the deck once again.

His words elicited a chuckle from the other captain who looked at his feet, almost bashful. The reaction made something boil in Arthur’s chest.

“Did I say something amusing, sir?” he barked and Jones’ startled blue eyes snapped up to give him a frightened look. “I was being perfectly serious,” Arthur continued. “If I have to suffer the incompetence of another bumbling yank I might as well swim back to England.”

Jones seemed completely taken aback by his words, blinking a few times and fumbling with his hands before splaying them in an abortive gesture.

“My apologies about your unfortunate experience,” he tried although his tone came out garbled. Arthur pressed on churlishly.

“I’m sure the crippled men who had to change ships would appreciate the sentiment.”

That seemed to finally rouse some of Jones’ pride and he frowned.

“I understand what you’re implying,” he said, something of indignation in his tone, “though I assure you my sentiment is still genuine. And I pray that you reconsider your decision to judge my country by the mistake of one man.”

“Ah yes, your country, of course,” Arthur brushed him off before lowering his voice to a mutter. “Who knows what the almighty was thinking when he gave your country of farmers a fleet.”

And just like that, Arthur’s match found the hole in the powder keg. Jones’ face contorted into a frigid grimace and all that open friendliness seemed to shrivel in on itself until all that was left was a veneer.

Arthur could only watch as the hostility sipped into Jones’ blue eyes and chiseled jaw. The American captain flexed his shoulders and cycled through a few more expressions of anger before settling on a look of disdain that Arthur hadn’t thought him capable of.

“How generous, then,” Jones said coldly, “of this fleet of farmers to give the remains of your routed army a ride home.”

Arthur felt his eyes widen and a flush rush to his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak but Jones beat him to it.

“And you might be interested to know, _sir_ , that the man who ran you aground,” Jones put his hat back on and smiled.

“Was a British deserter.”

* * *

Following their caustic little exchange, Jones had disappeared below, leaving Arthur, still fuming, in the hands of another officer. The rest of the men on deck had scattered like clockwork, and by the time Arthur descended the companion, life on the ship seemed to have reverted back to normal. It was as though the earlier commotion of his arrival had never happened.

He was shown to his allotted cabin with a few curt words and his sea chest was delivered not long after. It went without saying that his quarters were a far cry from the luxury he would have enjoyed on his own ship. Nevertheless, they were precious in the privacy they allowed and it was almost lovingly that he ran his hand over the frayed edges of the hammock, swaying with the motions of the ship.

Two weeks in a noisy American boarding house had wrung him dry of any good humor. But he felt some of it return as he laid back on the dry linen.

Being out at sea never failed to put him at ease. It was the familiarity of it, the long-acting habits that took over once he found himself in the enclosed little cosmos of a hull, where he would instantly forget the numerous trifles his mind was so apt to pick up on land. It wasn’t like he felt entirely comfortable on this ship – indeed, he felt just as surrounded by enemies as he’d been back when the sea had been teeming with them. Yet Arthur had expected nothing less.

So it was with relative equilibrium that he picked up his novel and settled himself in a comfortable position to read. A few minutes into his reading there was a knock at his cabin door and he was forced to look up from his book.

“Yes?” he called, feeling his brows scrunch together. What the devil did they want with him?

The person on the other side wasted no time in swinging the door open and the next moment Jones was stepping into the cabin, stooping down in order to fit through the frame.

How the man could bear to live on a ship was beyond Arthur. He was surprised Jones didn’t have a bald spot from bumping into the ships’ timbers all the time.

“May I help you, Captain Jones?” Arthur asked from where he lay. He might as well stay in his hammock seeing as his visitor hadn’t seen fit to announce himself.

Jones paused in front of the threshold and fixed him with that prominent blue-eyed gaze of his before clasping his hands behind his back and taking an authoritative stance. The effect was ruined by the fact that he was still trying to keep his head away from the deck above.

“I’m just here to inform you we’ve received a signal from the cartel ship that your men are all settled in.” He nodded. “There is also a good tailwind blowing so we can expect a smooth journey ahead of us while it lasts.”

“Excellent.” Arthur said drowsily, “Is that all, captain?”

Jones nodded again.

“I believe it is, sir. Ah, pardon me! I meant Lord Kirkland.” Jones sent him an affected smile and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure you did,” he deadpanned.

He expected Jones to leave then but the other captain lingered, running his eyes over Arthur’s frame without bothering to hide it and Arthur fidgeted as he realized that Jones might be judging his appearance. He had taken off his shoes and coat before climbing into the hammock and his half-buttoned vest was no doubt wrinkled from the position he lay in. It was no presentable state for a captain.

Jones, on the other hand, had taken off his cloak and his uniform looked pristine under the low light of the cabin’s single lamp. Arthur couldn’t help but note that he’d been right about Jones being thinner than his cloaked silhouette had suggested, though that didn’t make the man’s frame any less intimidating.

“So. Lord Kirkland,” Jones began, drawing Arthur’s eyes as he leaned back against the bulkhead. “Son of whom? Viscount Kirkland? Or Marquis perhaps?”

The question caught Arthur off guard and he raised his brows at the other.

Jones had that same impertinent little smile playing across his lips that seemed to taunt while hiding under a mask of harmless friendliness. Arthur flexed his jaw thoughtfully. It seemed the other captain was intent on surprising him with a boldness his initial impression had not given any hint of. How unfortunate for Jones that he’d miscalculated this time.

Arthur set down his book and placed his hands over the worn cover.

“Son of nobody.” He said. “Mr Kirkland if you’re feeling charitable toward an old shoemaker.”

It took all of a second for Jones’ smile to melt off his face. He jerked away from the bulkhead, suddenly looking uncomfortable, and Arthur watched as his mouth fell open and then closed as though someone had plucked him out of the water by the fins.

“My apologies,” he said finally, sounding oddly genuine, though Arthur remained unimpressed.

“For what, pray tell?” he asked.

Well. He knew exactly what Jones was apologizing for but what was the point if he didn’t make the man face up to it?

But Jones merely nodded in some kind of half-distraught half-absentminded gesture and frowned at his feet before adopting a strained smile.

“I hope you find your quarters to your satisfaction. Don’t hesitate to tell me if you need anything,” he blurted and was out the door before Arthur had a chance to say anything.

Arthur could only stare after him in amazement. God, he was going to get whiplash from the man’s moods if this kept up. One moment he was haughtily forward and the next he was hanging his head and speaking like a child who had just been chastised. Arthur didn’t know what to think anymore.

In any case, he would have to get used to Jones one way or another. If he was to interact with someone on the ship it would be Jones, and England was still weeks away, thousands of miles beyond the horizon. Part of him wanted to pretend that the journey wasn’t as long as it seemed, but experience had taught him that such illusions did one no favors at sea.

Life on the waves could be as exciting as it could be tedious and without a crew to command, Arthur had little to look forward to. He still didn’t know if he would find any decent company on this ship. Jones was more of an enigma that he’d anticipated and it wasn’t as though Arthur had tried to get off on the right foot with him.

_Oh well,_ Arthur thought as he picked up his book again. The wind and sea could be just as companionable if no other option presented itself. He hadn’t come here to make friends, and the thought of finally getting away from America was consolation enough.

As long as Jones didn’t make a nuisance of himself, Arthur would behave as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical context:
> 
> The prisoners Arthur has to pick up are the last of the POWs captured in the Battle of New Orleans. The peace treaty had already been signed by the time the battle took place but the news hadn’t yet reached the US.
> 
> The battle was a resounding success for the Americans and resulted in some heavy losses for the British: nearly 300 dead, more than a thousand wounded and 484 captured. In comparison the American army suffered just 65 casualties in total. As peace had already been concluded, negotiations for the transport of the last prisoners of the war took a back seat and some men had to wait months until they were returned home.
> 
> The means of transporting prisoners themselves had already been agreed upon during the war - private vessels were purchased by the two governments to serve as cartel ships and hundreds of prisoners were exchanged during the war.


End file.
